


True Heirs, Tapestries and Toujours Pur

by Lola_di_Penates



Series: CPC verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Black Character(s), Boys Kissing, Companionable Snark, Confident Harry, Confident Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is a Tease, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Fluff, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gay Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, One Shot Collection, POV Harry Potter, Pre-Slash, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slash, Slashy, Snarky Draco Malfoy, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Walburga Black Bashing, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23749000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_di_Penates/pseuds/Lola_di_Penates
Summary: Sick of surreptitiously snogging Malfoy in the Ministry of Magic’s storage cupboards, Harry accidentally opens Pandora’s box on pureblood succession planning, home ownership and hands of glory.A one shot based on the Draco/Harry in "Christmas Party Confessional" featuring snarky Draco, hopelessly addicted Harry and everyone's favourite screaming portrait.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: CPC verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710799
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	True Heirs, Tapestries and Toujours Pur

**Author's Note:**

> The first of many little plot bunnies bouncing around in my head based on Christmas Party Confessional. Let me know if you enjoyed it and I'll draw on some more!
> 
> Yes, i know Draco is still a bit of an insufferable prick but in my head that's just how he is. He'll soften up with time, stories and more snogging, I'm sure.

It had been more or less two months after the kebab-eating, cigarette-smoking, testosterone- fuelled kissing session when Draco Malfoy swooped into Harry’s office, (completely uninvited, of course) to enquire about Harry’s weekend. Harry hadn’t ever recalled imagining so many possibilities at once. His brain almost exploded in the sixty seconds he took to answer the relatively basic question.

His immediate thought was that Draco was going to ask him to do something on the weekend. Like a _date_ , Harry thought. It was a strangely conflicting concept, to be fair. Harry was irrefutably attracted to Malfoy, and definitely not only in the physical sense. But at the same time he was acutely aware that a public relationship between the Boy-Who-Lived and the only former Death Eater employed by the Ministry, was going to raise both a few eyebrows and some awkward questions.

Not least by Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy who, Harry guessed, probably hadn’t been informed that their son had engaged in precisely six storage-cupboard trysts with him that week.

Not that they needed to know, Harry thought. It wasn’t as if he and Draco ever sat down and talked about their feelings or their absurd attraction to each other or at what point they decided it was acceptable to secretly meet up to snog each other to death at work. It wasn’t as if Draco Malfoy was his boyfriend (although Harry was, by that point, hopelessly in love with him). Hell, Harry wasn’t even sure if he was gay. It didn’t really matter much to him anyway, because he definitely wasn’t seeing anyone else.

“You know, it’s awfully rude to ignore me,” Draco sniffed, breaking Harry’s convoluted train of thought. 

“Sorry, I was thinking about...work,” Harry said, unconvincingly, leaning back slightly in his chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Malfoy?”

“Honestly Potter, stop that,” Draco replied, smirking. “Some days, I’m Draco, some days I’m Malfoy. You’re giving me whiplash.”

Harry’s chest constricted slightly and he felt the warm rush of desire invigorate his limbs. He still wasn’t completely used to the unsettling mixture of anxiety and a burning hunger to push Draco (or Malfoy, whichever Harry felt like) up against his office bookcase and do things to him that definitely weren’t within the Ministry’s code of ethics for appropriate workplace conduct.

“So?” Draco said impatiently.

“I’m cleaning up an old house,” said Harry, without really thinking. As soon as the words had left his mouth he had the stunning realisation of how acutely _dull_ that made him sound.

Draco’s face twitched quizzically. Harry wondered if Draco was trying to envisage cleaning a house without a house elf. This, Harry thought, would have been a difficult task for someone who had probably never learned a household charm in their life, or so much as seen a cleaning product.

As it turned out, Draco Malfoy wasn’t thinking about cleaning at all.

“Exactly how many houses do you own, Potter?” Draco asked. “Excuse my ignorance but you don’t seem the type to be a real estate mogul.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, frowning. He wasn’t sure if the comment was an observation or an insult, but he never really was quite sure with Draco. He was completely unperplexed that he had chosen to ignore the word _cleaning_ and had gone directly for the word that indicated wealth. 

You might be able to reform a blood purist and a Death Eater, Harry thought, but apparently a Malfoy didn’t change all of it’s spots.

“I didn’t buy it,” he explained. “I acquired it under a Will.”

“Oh,” said Draco, conversationally. He picked up a book from Harry’s bookshelf and flipped through the pages casually. His attempt at nonchalance was admirable, Harry thought, but it wasn’t entirely convincing. He evidently hadn’t looked at the cover, for starters. He found Draco enigmatic, but Harry was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be interested in a book entitled: “Good Godric: The History of Gryffindor House.”

“Was the house your parent’s?” Draco asked, frowning at the contents of one of the pages at the centre of the book. Harry dearly hoped he had happened upon the section detailing the various Gryffindor victories against Slytherin in the Quidditch Cup. 

“No,” Harry replied, smirking as Draco’s frown deepened and he flipped to look at the cover of the book. Upon reading the title, he quickly thrust the book back onto the bookshelf as if it had spontaneously burst into flames.

 _Pretentious idiot,_ Harry thought, grinning broadly. 

Draco looked up from the bookshelf. Upon seeing Harry’s cheshire cat expression, he scowled.

“Feel free to borrow it anytime,” Harry said, gesturing towards the quickly discarded book.

Draco’s reply was predictably sardonic. “If I ever need to read the manual on rash decision making and favouritism, I’ll be sure to think of it.”

Harry snorted. He felt immature bickering with Draco about Hogwarts house rivalries, but he supposed it was a legitimate pursuit since the houses went back however many hundreds of years (he never had gotten around to reading “Hogwarts: A History,” much to Hermione’s disdain).

“How disappointing that Slytherin couldn’t win a house cup during your tenure, Malfoy.” 

“Believe it or not, Potter, but the cup is incredibly difficult to win when the Headmaster insists on awarding Gryffindor seven million house points for having a person with a scar on their forehead,” Draco retorted.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at Draco’s dark expression. The pale grey eyes had turned stormy, framed by perfect, blonde eyebrows that had distorted themselves into a deep frown.

“Would you like me to change the topic?” Harry asked, grinning broadly. He was enjoying himself, but he felt that he probably ought to avoid _trying_ to make Draco Malfoy despise him, since he had recently discovered that he was insatiably attracted to the man.

“Yes please,” Draco said, his features rearranging themselves into a haughty expression as he lowered himself gracefully into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. 

“What would you like to talk about?” Harry asked innocently, accidentally-on-purpose stretching a leg out under the desk to brush against Draco’s.

Draco raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Well you haven’t even asked what _I’m_ doing this weekend,” he complained, stretching his other leg to sit comfortably against Harry’s thigh.

Harry briefly contemplated what it would have felt like if neither of them were clad in Ministry’ approved pants and robes. He felt a familiar sensation flicker, warm below his stomach but he was so caught up in the closeness that he forgot to try and think of something else.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Harry asked compliantly, still distracted by the thought of being in a state of undress with Draco and how his skin would feel against Harry’s and the feeling of Draco’s mouth hot against Harry’s neck and lips and stomach and-

“Nothing,” Draco said simply, expectantly, as Harry’s consciousness suddenly registered that it needed to quickly change tact and think of something, _anything_ other than what it was currently fixated on.

He tried to think of the most un-arousing thing he could. His brain, inexplicably, landed on Gregory Goyle flavoured polyjuice potion. It worked. 

Draco shot him a look. Harry immediately registered it as one which said “ask me to do something with you, you git.”

Harry laughed. “If you wanted to clean an old house with me so badly, Draco, you could have just asked.”

~.~

“Charming, Potter,” Draco had remarked when Harry had led him onto the street front facing number 12 Grimmauld Place. “Forgive me, but it doesn’t feel very _you_.”

Harry glanced at the dreary facades of the various townhouses adorning the street. “Wait until you see the inside,” he muttered. It had taken a solid month to clean the interior to a respectable state, since he had sent Kreacher to work in the Hogwarts kitchens after the War. 

Despite the fact that his Godfather’s house had not been in use as the Order of the Phoenix Headquarters for more than ten years (combined with the fact that the Order itself no longer had a reason to exist at all), he felt oddly apprehensive about divulging the secret location to a former Death Eater. The Fidelius Charm had held, despite being split a variety of ways since Dumbledore’s death. Dully, Harry registered that many of the new secret keepers themselves had lost their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Draco here, Harry thought. However, he reasoned, it was the perfect place for a rendezvous seeing as nearly no-one knew it existed.

An additional benefit was that he was in the midst of a seemingly futile attempt to make the house liveable. His rooftop flat, despite its obvious allure, had never really felt like home to Harry. 12 Grimmauld Place was more familiar, but Harry had steadfastly avoided trying to make it habitable due to both the painful memory of Sirius that permeated the place and the fact that he was yet to find a way to remove the family tapestry, Walburga’s portrait and the elf heads.

That was today’s task, once Malfoy had reached capacity with him (or the house, whichever was more abrasive) and decided to leave.

Exhaling slowly he turned to face Malfoy, almost involuntarily taking one of his hands with his own.

“Potter-” Malfoy started, but Harry cut him off.

“Draco, shut up and pay attention.”

Draco Malfoy, astonishingly, did what he was told.

“The house I own is at number 12 Grimmauld Place, London.”

“Great story, Potter,” Draco quipped, but Harry saw his eyes widen perceptively as number 12 revealed itself in front of his eyes.

“You put your house under Fidelius?” he asked, and Harry was satisfied to hear an inkling of admiration in his voice.

“I inherited it this way,” Harry said, motioning for Draco to follow him. “Don’t mind the initial gloom by the way, the previous inhabitants were apparently very welcoming.”

Draco’s eyes flitted around the dark (albeit clean) entrance hallway apprehensively as Harry cast a required warming spell and lit the lamps down the passageway. He was about to make an insidious comment about Draco’s lack of sarcastic remarks when he heard the rustle of a curtain over his shoulder.

“Oh Merlin no, Draco,” he groaned, whipping around to see Malfoy move the curtain over the foreboding portrait slightly ajar. Harry’s hands involuntarily clamped tight over his ears.

“Filth! Scum-”

Harry saw Draco flatten himself against the wall instantaneously as Walburga Black started her usual screeching, yellow eyes wide open in accusation, stout frame and black bonnet as unpleasant to the eye as her voice was to the ears.

Harry was about to jump in to start trying to wrench the curtain shut (a task which was never easy with one person), when Walburga’s screaming suddenly came to a halt. 

“Boy,” she said, voice shaking with what Harry thought was wonder (having never heard Walburga Black speak so softly before). “Boy, what is your name?”

Draco looked as if Walburga’s voice had literally stolen his own. Harry was briefly convinced that instead of kissing Draco Malfoy that afternoon, he’d be performing mouth to mouth resuscitation.

“Draco,” he said, appearing to have recovered from shock momentarily. “Draco Malfoy.”

Harry watched, stunned and transfixed, as Walburga’s ugly blanched face contorted into something which Harry presumed was supposed to be adoration. He had certainly never seen such an expression worn by the portrait, nor had he ever heard her be so benign.

She drew a long, haggard breath.

“Home at _last_ ,” she wailed, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Finally! A worthy inhabitant of this most noble house! After the years of the blood traitors, mutants and freaks befouling the house of my fathers the _true heir_ has come home. Finally, I can be at peace in the knowledge that-”

Harry was admittedly as shocked as Draco looked at this point. He had never imagined that Walburga would finally be happy with a visitor to the house, and the thought made him feel irrationally angry. To be fair, he hadn’t heard anyone express an ideal aligning with pureblood rhetoric in a while, so the words felt like a distant memory coming back to haunt him.

As Walburga’s monologue continued, and Draco gazed on in utter confusion and horror, Harry sidled closer to the unflapped curtain surreptitiously. Draco’s eyes, wide and panicked, met his as Harry reached the edge of the portrait.

“-and Narcissa, beautiful Narcissa, has produced a _pureblood_ boy, worthy of stepping foot in this illustrious manor of unfathomable history. The living descendant of the noble line of Black, coming home to-”

Harry stuck his head around the portrait, interrupting Walburga’s dreary oration. “Actually, he’s come here to shag me.”

Capitalising on Walburga’s momentary shock he grasped the curtain and wrenched it closed, just as Walburga had begun screeching “Abomination! Shame!” Her words carried off and dissolved into the air as the curtains hung still.

Draco rounded on him. “What the _fuck_ Potter?”

“Sorry,” Harry grimaced, “I didn’t think you’d have to meet her today.” 

“What about the _other_ part?” Draco asked, incredulously.

“Oh, the shagging part,” Harry said, smiling. “Don’t worry about that. I just couldn’t handle her liking you more than me.”

Daringly, he winked at Draco. “Are you ready to see the rest of this place?”

“Is it going to accost me again?” Malfoy asked, staring at the abnormally high ceilings with suspicion.

Harry smirked. “I’ll protect you, Draco,” he said, teasing, “but you mustn't touch what isn’t _yours_.”

Draco scowled. “All of it’s mine, according to your friend over there,” he said in a low voice, jerking his head towards the portrait of Walburga.

“An interesting thought,” Harry mused, for the first time wondering whether or not his succession of the house by Sirius had been successful. Draco was, after all, a living male in the lineage of the house of Black. The Order had assumed that because Draco only had grounds to inherit it through his mother (much like Teddy), that the chain of inheritance had been broken. The house had, so far, been pliant with Harry’s ownership, including his ability to give orders to Kreacher. However, Draco had been unaware of the existence of number 12 Grimmauld Place until this very moment. Harry wondered whether or not that made a difference.

“Why?” Draco demanded impatiently. “What was she talking about? Why does she know Mother’s name?”

Harry could sense Draco was becoming more agitated by the second. He had a thought.

“I’ll show you,” he said, holding out his hand which Draco took, gingerly.

Harry felt a rush of affection as the interlacing of their fingers ran shivers of excitement up his arm. He craved this closeness. Affection, even, which Harry reasoned he was unlikely to get most of the time from someone like Draco Malfoy.

Harry felt Draco stiffen halfway up the stairs as he led the way to the first floor. Probably at the elf heads, Harry thought, although Draco’s reaction was far more muted than the outright horror most people displayed. Harry wondered whether the Malfoy Manor had a collection of elf heads. He couldn’t recall seeing any, but then again, during his first and only visit to the Manor he had been largely preoccupied with not getting killed.

Inside the drawing room, he led Draco to the imposing, richly embroidered tapestry that covered the entire right wall. Releasing his hand, he stood back as Draco stared, transfixed at the thin, golden lines that connected the various names. He reached out carefully to trace the strand that connected _Cygnus Black III_ and _Drusella Rosier_ to _Narcissa Black_ and _Lucius Malfoy_ (quickly skipping over Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange’s names, Harry noticed) and finally down to rest over _Draco Malfoy_.

“I’m the last one,” Draco said, almost at a whisper. It was as if the tapestry had put him under some kind of enchantment. Harry glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder to make sure the sleep-inducing music box had definitely been thrown out during the Molly Weasley purge of 1995.

“Why would that matter?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said quickly, looking away from the tapestry to face him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow, moving backwards to sit on the couch opposite the tapestry. He motioned for Draco to sit beside him. “Try me.”

“Drop it, Potter,” Draco snapped. Harry recognised this as Draco effectively compartmentalising. Harry had learned that Draco Malfoy was remarkably good at shutting off things that he didn’t want to address, sort of like an internal version of occlumency. 

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender and leant back on the couch. Draco sighed and sat down beside him, resting the back of his head on the backrest and looking toward the ceiling.

“Fine. But your mother was a muggleborn so-”

Harry stiffened. 

“Not like that you idiot,” Draco continued, feeling Harry’s tenseness, “I just mean that you’re not from a pureblood family. Ensuring the continuation of the genetic line isn’t your _raison d’etre_.”

“So your life’s mission is to produce an heir?” Harry asked, reaching out to absentmindedly trace a pattern on Draco’s unblemished right forearm. Malfoy’s eyes closed as he twitched at Harry’s touch, but didn’t move. 

“Something like that, yes.”

“Marginally better than being marked as a baby to vanquish a powerful, dark wizard,” Harry quipped, eyes transfixed to Draco’s face.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked sideways at Harry with disdain. “Thank you for your kind understanding of my predicament, Potter.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, grinning facetiously, but didn’t remove his hand from Draco’s skin. 

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Draco sighed, flopping his head back onto the backrest. Thin strands of blonde hair splayed out over the fabric. “Being tasked to produce an heir and being the way that I am…” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked in what he hoped was an innocent tone. He fought down Auror-Harry’s inclination to start a full blown interrogation.

“Don’t be thick, Harry,” Malfoy snorted, but his eyes closed in satisfaction from Harry’s gentle touch on his wrist.

“Because you don’t want children?” Harry asked, briefly considering that this conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

Draco turned his head to face him. “No, you halfwit,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s somewhat problematic that I’m supposed to be copulating with a rich, pureblood witch, but instead I’m obsessed with the idea of sleeping with you?”

Harry grinned, goading Draco on. “But you haven’t slept with me, Malfoy.”

“Yet!” He exclaimed. Then, reigning in his exasperation, he muttered under his breath, “by Salazar you’re a twat, Harry Potter.”

Harry laughed, reaching for Malfoy’s hand again. Malfoy scowled at him and pulled his hand away. 

“Don’t be sensitive, Draco,” he said, grinning and placing his hand delicately on Draco’s knee instead, “I very much enjoy your obsession.”

Draco’s eyes flitted to Harry’s hand but he didn’t make an attempt to move away. “Can I retract that comment?” he asked, scowl still firmly in place.

“Will it make it any less true if you do?” Harry countered, biting his lip.

Draco sighed dramatically. “Probably not. Being ravenously attracted to you is a burden I loathe to carry.”

Harry rolled his eyes and commenced drawing patterns on Draco’s inner thigh instead. “If it makes a difference, Draco, you’re not the last Black.”

Draco’s scowl faded into puzzlement. “I’m not?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Harry said. “Sirius,” he paused as the dull throb of saying his Godfather’s name passed, “the generous benefactor of this house, was the last Black. According to him, anyway.”

“Somewhat messy how Aunt Bella killed him, wasn’t it?” Draco mused, completely oblivious to how such a statement might be painful for Harry to consider.

“Somewhat,” Harry agreed tersely. 

Draco turned to face him, registering Harry’s tight lips and furrowed brow. The pale grey eyes flickered with concern and, without saying anything, Draco cupped Harry’s cheek in his hand and leant in to brush his lips softly over Harry’s forehead. Harry’s face relaxed instantaneously.

_Sorry._

Harry hadn’t known Draco in the capacity of his would-be boyfriend for long, but he had known him long enough to recognise that this was an apology. He wasn’t as well acquainted with the words, but that suited Harry fine. In response, Harry shuffled slightly closer along the couch to rest his head on Draco’s shoulder and continued tracing imaginary patterns over the slim fitted, dark coloured denim that covered Malfoy’s legs.

They sat in silence for a moment before Draco’s attention was brought back to the task at hand.

“It appears I’m still the last _living_ lineal descendant,” he said, gazing back at the tapestry.

Harry shook his head. “Also untrue. Your other Aunt is still alive, Andromeda. As is her grandson.”

“But where is she?” Draco asked obliviously. “I had heard rumours of a second cousin, of course, but they were rumours of a baby werewolf. I thought they were just made up by the other Death Eaters to further muddy Mother and Father’s reputation.”

Harry’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. “Andromeda was blasted off by Walburga, I think,” he said. “She married a muggleborn.”

“Ah,” said Draco, now seeing the burn-mark present on the tapestry. “That’s rather vitriolic.”

“You met her before, in portrait form. Lovely lady, really welcoming,” Harry said, thankful the conversation had turned away from Death Eaters.

“So who is my second cousin, then?” Draco asked. Harry reflected that it was odd he was effectively introducing Draco’s maternal family tree to him. He wondered whether Narcissa had ever bothered to mention any of her family other than _Aunt Bella_.

“Teddy,” Harry said, proudly. “He’s not a werewolf, but he is my Godson.”

Draco stared at him. “This is becoming very convoluted,” he said. “I hope we’re not related.”

Harry laughed. The thought of an old wizarding family like the Malfoys or the Blacks _not_ being related to any other wizarding family was laughable. Harry was fairly sure there was a Potter somewhere on the Black tapestry (though he had not recognised the name). He wasn’t about to let Draco know that though.

He turned to Malfoy and grinned.

“Is now an appropriate time to suggest a tour of the bedrooms?” 

~.~

“Did you arrange this gorgeous decor, Potter?” Draco taunted as they scaled another staircase adorned by the mummified heads of house elves.

“I brought them here specifically to impress you,” Harry replied sarcastically. “I thought, as a Slytherin, you would have appreciated it. You lot seem to generally enjoy the dark and gloomy.”

“Lack of tasteful execution Potter, as usual,” Draco replied. “Five points from Gryffindor.”

Harry scoffed. “I’d love to see your interpretation of tasteful, Malfoy.” He could feel Draco’s smirk permeating the back of his neck.

“I’ll save you the heartache, Potter,” Draco replied. “It’s exquisite.”

“Not if I’m allergic to the colour green,” Harry muttered darkly. Draco, predictably, ignored him.

“So,” Malfoy said, switching tact, “Sirius left you this house in his Will?”

“Yes,” Harry said, the hard lump forming again in his throat as he thought of Sirius. “He is- was my Godfather.”

“Your Godfather was a Slytherin?” Draco asked as they reached the third floor landing. 

“Definitely not,” Harry grimaced. “He hated this house more than anyone.”

“So he bequeathed his most despised possession to you?”

“He bequeathed his only possession to me,” Harry replied. “I think he just didn’t want to give it to anyone else, to be honest.”

Draco seemed to accept this answer and turned his attention to a nearby cupboard, reaching down to wrench open the handle.

“Oh that one doesn’t open-” Harry started, before being lost for words as Draco easily opened the door.

“Dark artefacts, Harry?” Malfoy said quizzically, turning to appraise Harry. “Wouldn’t have picked you as the type.”

Harry stared at the various unfamiliar items in the cupboard, astounded. “I’ve only been trying to open that cupboard for years, Malfoy, but by all means, go ahead.”

“Looks like you have your own Hand of Glory,” Draco said, ignoring Harry and peering into the cupboard. “I used to have one of those.”

Harry already knew this of course, but he didn’t bother to let Draco know that.

“How did you open it?” Harry persisted, still astonished that his ongoing battle with the house had been so easily won by Malfoy.

“I pulled the handle,” Draco deadpanned. “Should I try all of the doorknobs to check?”

“I think that room at the far end used to house a Hippogriff,” Harry said, grinning. “I don’t recall you two taking a great liking to each other, but please, be my guest.”

Draco’s eyes widened, panic momentarily rendering him lost for words.

“Relax, Draco,” Harry snickered. “It’s been _at least_ ten years since Buckbeak lived here.”

Draco scowled and went back to peering into the cupboard.

“I wonder-” Harry began, thinking aloud. “I wonder if there are certain enchantments on this house which prevent anyone other than a lineal descendant accessing it.”

“Quite possibly,” Draco agreed, shutting the cupboard door. “It wouldn’t be abnormal for pureblood families to protect certain things in that way to prevent their estates from ever being sold to third parties.”

Harry thought about the various other cupboards and hangings which had resisted his demands. He wondered whether Draco would object to being used as an assistant in his quest for victory against the most noble house of Black.

“Maybe this house is mine,” Draco mused, looking slyly at Harry. 

“Feel free to take one of the eight, currently unused bedrooms,” Harry said, gesturing to the bedroom door off the landing, unnerved by the smug smile blossoming over Draco’s features.

“Merlin, Harry,” he remarked, the soft, aristocratic sneer edging into his tone. “First you declare your undying love for me before we’ve even kissed, and now you’re asking me to move in with you?”

Harry scoffed. “Presumptuous, Draco. I don’t actually live here.”

“Touchy, touchy, Potter,” he said softly, voice velvety as he stepped closer to Harry, whose back was against the wall opposite the cupboard, and ran the back of his hand over Harry’s cheek. 

Harry momentarily lost his ability to think. He leant in, intoxicated by the closeness and touched his lips briefly against Draco’s, testing his luck.

Although Draco had, in a Malfoy sort of way, asked to spend time together, one on one and in an abandoned house, Harry was still hesitant to do anything rash. All of their alone time in Ministry storage cupboards had been of Draco’s volition, and Harry was still half convinced one day Malfoy would simply cease to pay attention to him and they would go back to being whatever they were before Harry had kissed him on the top of his rooftop.

Draco smirked, his hand turning softly over to lift Harry’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. It was the only time that Harry really noticed the height difference between them. The single inch didn’t strike a huge contrast in day to day activities but when he was pressed up against a solid wall with Draco’s face centimetres from his, he noticed that the latter’s 5”10 frame did give him a slight advantage.

It was almost _painful_ , Harry thought.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at Harry’s face, which must have reflected some element of the frustration he was feeling. His body felt electrified with the closeness and the soft, pitifully brief kiss that Draco brushed against his lips just wasn’t going to cut it. Harry’s hand snaked its hand around the waistband of Draco’s dark wash jeans and, finding the small of his back, pulled his body closer.

“Impatient, too,” Draco murmured against Harry’s lips as the former’s fingers tangled themselves in his hair at the nape of his neck.

“Don’t be a tease, Malfoy,” Harry muttered with frustration, as Draco drew his face slightly out of reach.

The blonde eyebrows quirked and Draco’s mouth twitched back into a satisfied smile. “Such a Gryffind-”

Harry wondered in that moment whether, after all these years, he finally had developed a death wish. He initially fought fate but there just simply wasn’t another way to make Draco Malfoy _shut up_. Removing his hand from Draco’s back, he traced his fingers lightly, quickly around the outside of his leg and then, laying his palm flat, up his inner thigh, coming to rest tauntingly close to the zipper.

Enjoying Draco’s newfound silence, Harry inclined his head and trailed a series of kisses up Malfoy’s neck, gently pushing aside the neck of the black long sleeve which covered Draco’s torso with his free hand.

“You were saying?” Harry asked quietly, kissing Draco’s earlobe.

“Never mind,” Draco hissed, eyes closed, body close as something perceptibly firm pressed against Harry’s stray hand.

“Kiss me, you idiot,” Harry breathed, desire coursing so strongly through him, he was finding it difficult to stay vertical. He swore his imagination was running away with him because it was hard to believe he was standing in 12 Grimmauld Place, bailed up against a wall, wanting to do absolutely filthy things to one Draco Malfoy.

Draco appeared to have undergone a personality transplant in those preceding minutes because he was, all of a sudden, very compliant. No sooner had Harry requested it but Draco’s mouth was on his, lips moving deliciously slowly as he explored Harry with his tongue.

Harry felt as though he was melting into a puddle against the wall. His legs felt like they were somewhat detached from his body and he was fairly sure having Draco pressed firmly up against him was the only thing preventing them from giving way all together.

Draco’s hips bucked softly and Harry moaned involuntarily into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as Draco pulled his lips away, lips looking as raw and ravaged as Harry’s felt.

“You promised me a tour of the bedrooms, Harry Potter,” Draco said quietly, hand pushing Harry’s t-shirt upwards to expose his skin to Draco’s touch. Harry shivered with anticipation in response as Draco leant down over him again, “and I intend to collect.”


End file.
